


All the President's Rubies

by jewboykahl



Series: Macklin and Scarn [1]
Category: New Girl (TV 2011), Parks and Recreation, The Office (US)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Behavior, Crack Treated Seriously, Drama, Espionage, Gen, Parody, References to Canon, cross-over, multifandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27564952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewboykahl/pseuds/jewboykahl
Summary: PART ONE OF MACKLIN AND SCARN:After President Leslie Knope has been kidnapped and the precious, historic rubies stolen along with her, the Vice President is forced to call upon a rouge FBI agent and a retired spy to rescue her and recover the priceless gems. Though reluctant to work together, Burt Macklin and Michael Scarn team up and uncover a scheme that runs much deeper than they could have imagined.
Relationships: Leslie Knope/Ben Wyatt
Series: Macklin and Scarn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014876
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	1. Hay Place

**Author's Note:**

> so...... yeah.  
> my partner and i wrote this and i'm way too proud of it so i'm posting it!!  
> this is only the beginning......

As he paced the Oval Office, his temporary new work space, Vice President Benjamin Wyatt did his best to wrap his mind around the events that had transpired in the dark of the night. The President, his wife, had been kidnapped from within their home along with the historic rubies George Washington had left behind for the following presidents to admire. There were many questions to be posed: How did the perpetrator bypass the extensive security of the White House? Where had they taken Mrs. Knope? _How_ did they know about the rubies? 

“What am I going to do?” Wyatt asked himself softly. Not only the love of his life, but millions of dollars’ worth of precious gems had been taken from right underneath his nose. He questioned his competence as a leader and a husband. This was Ice Town all over again.

Wyatt took strides towards the wall, decorated with classy wooden frames perfectly organized and containing photos of prestigious world leaders. He scanned his eyes along the pictures, desperate for inspiration. Then, they fell on a familiar-looking man. Not only a man—an FBI agent.

This FBI agent was no ordinary one. Wyatt had encountered him before; he knew what this man was capable of. He and his father before him served their country dutifully and with unmatched skill of any agent he could recall. Most recently, he had put a stop to infamous crime boss Janet Snakehole, who previously controlled an underground ring of smugglers and drug dealers across the United States.

“That’s it,” Wyatt exclaimed under his breath before spinning on his heels and dashing towards the phone. He wasted no time dialing the number of Bert Tyrannosaurus Macklin.

“Knope,” a gruff, breathy voice finally replied after one-too-many rings and silence. “This better be good.”

A sigh of relief fell from Wyatt’s lips, “Macklin, thank god. We need you.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Macklin scoffed. “You know I’m retired. They said I was too dangerous. My methods, too extreme.”

“Well, that’s exactly what America needs right now. President Knope has been kidnapped along with…” Wyatt trailed off, debating whether or not to reveal that the sacred rubies of George Washington had been stolen as well.

“Spit it out, Wyatt. I can handle anything.”

Wyatt cleared his throat. A single tear dared to fall from his eye. “The rubies,”

Silence persisted momentarily before a stolid response came from the other line, “I know the son-of-a-bitch that stole your lady, Vice Pres. And I know just where to find him.”

_

Bert Macklin stared longingly into the mirror, desperate to find answers in his own eyes. Of course, only one man would be despicable enough and skilled enough to kidnap the President and steal the rubies. This would be a man with the knowledge of an entire government compiled into one evil mind. A man that bested him time and time again, yet that had also been bested by Macklin. A true equal of our fearless FBI agent.

“Mikal Petrov,” Macklin grunted, anger bursting within him like an Andy’s Mouth Surprise. “But where is that slippery snake?”

Macklin proceeded with his morning work-out routine, dressed in his crisply ironed uniform, planted a kiss on his mistress’s head, and headed out in search of the man he believed culpable for arguably the vilest crime of the century. Including the 1900’s.

Slamming his fist against the garage door opener, Macklin disregarded his helmet and mounted his trusty motorcycle. There was no time for safety—only revenge. He sped away into the brisk dawn of day in search of Petrov.

“Now, if I were a butt-licking lover-murderer, where would I be?”

_

Cruising around the small, vaguely unpleasant-smelling town of Pawnee, Indiana, Macklin ignored both the cheers of protest and appreciation he received from the town’s informed citizens. He was headed to the one place he knew Petrov loved to visit and be evil; the Snakehole Lounge. _If that crazy Russian is anywhere, it’s gotta be there_ , Macklin thought.

Macklin swerved into the parking lot of the club, blood already boiling with the prospect of coming face to face yet again with the criminal that murdered his former girlfriend. The wound was still fresh—although Macklin could never admit that. He sauntered into the joint, instantly making it past the bouncers due to his intimidating aura. This man was not to be truffled with.

The agent stood at the entrance, slowly removing his aviators and scanning the crowd of drunken patrons listlessly tossing themselves at one another. He half-expected to rendezvous with a former rival and owner of the very establishment—Janet Snakehole. However, he knew this was impossible, as he locked her cell in Alcatraz himself.

“Bert Macklin!” A familiar voice exclaimed on approaching Macklin. He glanced down to find a tiny, Indian companion of his that frequented the night-club and sold him information once or twice. Tom Haverford granted him a smile, “What brings you back out of retirement?”

“Who said I was back out of retirement again, Tommy?” Macklin snickered. “And who said I ever retired?”

“You did,” Tom reminded him. “Last week, after you captured Janet Snakehole and everyone said you were too extreme because you took a video of yourself peeing in her cell—”

“Alright, let’s cut to the chase, Haverford,” Macklin interrupted. “I know you know you know what I want to know.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, “Perhaps… for the right price.”

Macklin smirked, “Just you name it.”

“15% of whatever Wyatt’s giving you,” Tom retorted, “and a shout-out for Tommy’s Bistro on your Instagram.”

“How do you know who’s paying me these days?” Macklin demanded, somewhat caught off guard by Tom’s knowledge.

Tom shrugged his shoulders, “I have my connections. I do know what you know you need to know, so if you want to ask questions instead of agreeing to my terms, good luck finding your guy.”

“Damn it… you’re right,” Macklin sighed. “I’d be lost without you.”

“Do we have a deal, then?”

Macklin reluctantly accepted the much smaller hand and shook. During the exchange, he felt a piece of paper press against his skin. With this, Tom winked and strolled away while sipping his cocktail. Macklin grasped the paper firmly and turned to leave.

He climbed back onto the seat of his motorcycle and gingerly unfolded the precious piece of information. Squinting, he read the black words against the white paper: _Petrov is in Muncy. You know where._

“That whore,” Macklin grumbled. He crumbled the paper and disregarded it to his side before beginning his trip.

_

A combination of loss and raw anger began to fill his lungs with a feeling of drowning as Macklin approached the very location where unspeakable horrors occurred. He instantly deciphered where the disgusting Petrov would be hiding out—the same place his late girlfriend was tortured and killed by him. Macklin grit his teeth and fought his trepidation as he sped down the dirt road that lead off an old, weather-worn barn in the middle of nowhere.

Macklin abandoned his motorcycle in an out-of-sight location before sliding off and drawing the pistol from its holster. Cautiously, he crept towards the entrance of the barn, prepared to meet his mortal enemy.

Perspiration trickled down the agent’s brow as he slipped inside the barn. He was immediately sickened by the location and overcome with twisted memories of his beloved partner’s untimely demise. Macklin wrestled these thoughts into submission and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

Macklin minded his steps across the untrustworthy floor-boards, hay sticking to the bottom of his shoes and the offensive smell of barn animals wafting into his nose. Although the space wasn’t necessarily vast, there were many stables and a large doors separating him from the potential hiding place of his nemesis.

“Hey, who’s there?! Help me! Stop it, you Russian freak, this jump-suit is pure silk!” someone called from Macklin’s left. He was grateful for the hint and the knowledge that Petrov had taken yet another hostage.

Macklin sprang into action towards the direction of the voice, charging over a short swinging door into a neighboring stall. He quickly recovered from his face-first fall against the hay and fought past the larger door of the enclosure designed for cows, a now firmer grasp on his gun. “I know you’re here, commie! And I know why you brought me back here. You’re a sick bastard!”

Suddenly, a door swung open to Macklin’s left to reveal the terrorist himself—Mikal Petrov. He was portly, well-aged man with thinned white hair and rectangular glasses resting on the edge of his cherry-red nose. To the untrained eye this man seemed harmless and comparable to a cheerful grandfather, but Macklin was fully cognizant of the atrocities Petrov was prepared to commit.

“You’re too late, Macklin!” Petrov cackled. “Jamm belongs to Mother Russian now!”

The skinny, frazzled councilmen was roughly dragged to Petrov’s side, the barrel of his own gun pressed firmly to his jew-fro. “Councilman and dentist Jeremy Jamm,” Macklin identified the victim verbally. “This is a couple steps down from your other latest kidnapping job, don’t you think, Petrov?”

Petrov disregarded this comment and spouted his well-rehearsed demands, “I’ll return the councilman, Macklin, but only for all the money Pawnee’s worth and your head on a stick!”

Macklin chuckled sardonically, “You really think you could take me down? Especially after what you did to my Judy in this very barn?”

“Judy?” Jamm asked confusedly. “Who the hell’s Judy?”

“Judy Hitler!” Macklin roared, aiming his gun fiercely at Petrov’s head. “This heartless turd blossom murdered her without a second thought, just to get his hands on the original copy of Cones of Dunshire that the Vice President had given me.”

“That’s right, and don’t think I won’t pull the trigger again!” Petrov laughed manically.

“Not this time,” Macklin replied assuredly. Swiftly, he flipped off his aviators and squinted his left eye, “I know your weakness now.”

The agent aimed and fired. Within seconds, Petrov released his grasp on the councilman and fell to the ground. “Gosh darn it!” he cried, helplessly searching for the spectacles that Macklin had expertly shot off his face. “I can’t see without my cheaters!”

“I hope you like pain!” Macklin exclaimed, rushing towards his debilitated opponent, hitting him with a nasty right-hook.

Petrov was instantly rendered unconscious against the hay, his glasses still several feet away from him. Macklin slid the back of his hand across his sweat-drenched forehead and stood over Petrov’s motionless body, “Go lick Voldemort Putnin’s ballsack, bitch.”

“Awesome, can you drive me home now?” Jamm inquired, still attempting to catch his breath and free his wrists from the restraints that Petrov had given him.

“Absolutely,” Macklin replied. “ _Not_. Go get a bucket of water from that well outside. It’s interrogation time.”

Jamm’s eyebrows furrowed at the FBI agent, “Are you dooking on my chest?! That crazy dude took me out of my crib three days ago and has been feeding me nothing but hay, I need a cheeseburger or I’m going to die—”

“You’ll get your cheeseburger, baby. But first, we need to know what Petrov did with the president.” Macklin insisted, placing his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose. “She’s been kidnapped.”

_

After two buckets of water being poured over his face and an admittedly ruthless kick to the groin, Petrov finally came to. Gagging and protecting himself, he slumped himself against the wall of the structure and gasped for air.

“Where is President Knope?!” Macklin demanded, cocking his fist in preparation of more motivation for his foe to confess.

Bewildered, Petrov shook his head at the agent’s accusation, “I have no clue what you’re talking about, Macklin! I don’t even know what happened to the president!”

“Bullshit!” he spat back at him. “You kidnapped her from the White House along with all the president’s rubies, and you’re going to tell me where she is!”

Petrov cradled his aching chest and continued to shake his head, “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m just trying to bankrupt Pawnee—not America!”

“All I hear come out of your mouth is lies!” Macklin screamed and let another punch connect with Petrov’s cheek.

From behind him, he could hear a vaguely irritating laugh. He spun around to find Jamm hunched over, cracking up. “You—You really think Santa Claus over there could kidnap the _President of the United States_? I’m basically completely defenseless and it still took him twenty minutes to tie my arms together!”

Macklin grunted, returning his furious gaze to the writhing Petrov, “Well if it wasn’t you… who could it have been?!”

_

“Thank again for your help, Bert,” the sheriff of Pawnee said, clapping Macklin on the back. “we’ve been trying to get this guy for a long time.”

Macklin nodded stolidly, “Looks like this Siberian Husky’s goin’ to be Russian…off to jail.”

With that, the sheriff shook his hand and turned to aid his deputy in loading Petrov into the back of their cruiser. While Macklin was relieved that the man who ended his former lover’s life would finally be incarcerated, he was not totally satisfied. He would now have to inform the Vice President that he had wasted a day chasing a cold lead.

_

Wyatt was disheartened to hear the news Bert Macklin delivered to him. He rested his elbows on his wife’s desk and sighed deeply, “I thought you could pull this off, Macklin.”

Macklin scoffed, “I may be the greatest FBI agent of all time, but I’m still one man, Wyatt! I know this is your wife we’re talking about, but you gotta cut me some slack.”

“You’re right,” Wyatt agreed, a lightbulb seemingly going off above his head. “You are just one man. We’re gonna have to call for some back-up.”


	2. This Makes It Personal

“Back-up?” Macklin scoffed. “The only back-up I’ll ever need is my three-legged dog, Champion.”

The Vice President narrowed his gaze at the agent, “I really don’t see how a disabled dog would be any help with this particular situation.”

“He is not disabled!” Macklin shot back defensively. “He can do everything a regular dog can do!”

“Do you know of any _humans_ from the _FBI_ that could help you with this case?” Wyatt asserted, growing more frustrated every second his beloved wife was in the hands of the unknown assailant.

Macklin reclined back in his chair, wracking his brain for potential partners. An idea struck him, and he smirked, “I do know someone who is excellent at karate. And singing.”

Wyatt said, “The singing won’t be necessary. Are they FBI?”

Macklin shook his head, “No, but he does have his own TV show?”

“Who is it?” Wyatt sighed.

“Johnny Karate,” Macklin revealed. “With my incredible detective work and his incredible fighting skills and also my incredible fighting skills, we’ll be unstoppable, and we’ll put an end to whatever scumbag stole Ms. Knope.”

“Are you seriously suggesting we have a children’s TV show host help rescue the President of the United States from a criminal mastermind that was able to evade the most intensely armed, secured, and monitored building in the entire country?”

Macklin paused, “Well when you put it like that it sounds ridiculous.”

“That’s because it is ridiculous!” Wyatt exclaimed.

“Alright, alright, keep your pants on,” Macklin replied, returning to his thoughts for anyone he trusted enough to aid him in this mission. “How about his brother?”

“Who’s brother?”

“Johnny Karate’s brother,” Macklin clarified, “Jonathan Karate.”

“Get out,” Wyatt retorted, pushing away from the desk and rising to his feet. He combed his fingers through his hair, utterly exasperated, “I need actual competent people to help me save my wife!”

Macklin frowned. “Okay, I didn’t want it to have to come to this, but there is one more man I know. He’s a wild card, though.”

“Who, Captain America?” The Vice President inquired sarcastically.

“No,” Macklin glanced away dramatically. “My brother. Kip Hackman.”

Wyatt stared blankly at the agent momentarily before shouting, “What?! Why don’t you guys have the same last name?!”

“That’s actually a really crazy story—”

Suddenly, the loud chime of the phone cut off Macklin. Wyatt took a second to collect himself before reaching onto the desk and picking it up, “Vice President Ben Wyatt,”

“Wyatt,” the speaker addressed him. There was secrecy evident in the man’s tone. “I trust you are aware of the crisis at hand.”

“Of course, I am,” Wyatt spoke firmly, “Who is this?”

“This,” the voice began slowly, full of regret. “this is the man who caused it.”

Wyatt’s heart skipped an unpleasant beat. Disdain filled his entirety as he demanded, “Who the hell is this?!”

“This is former president Darryl Philbin. I made a horrible decision, and I hope you can understand and forgive me. It was me that sold President Knope out. I was being threatened.”

“Who is it?” Macklin wondered, putting the weight back onto his feet as well.

Wyatt raised his pointer finger at Macklin to silence him, “What do you mean you sold her out?”

The ex-president let out a long breath, “You would understand if you were put in my position. This is the second time this monster has threatened to blow up one of my stadiums.”

The Vice President cocked an eyebrow, “One— _One_ of your stadiums is more important to you than the President of the United States? And all the rubies?!” 

Mr. Philbin exclaimed, “I didn’t know that maniac would kidnap your wife, man! I just told him about the rubies!”

“It’s a little late to make excuses! Why are you even calling, just to rat yourself out? Don’t think I won’t have you arrested for all the damage you’ve caused!”

“I know—I know what I deserve,” Mr. Philbin huffed deeply. “But I also know who can fix this. He’s cleaned up my mess before, and he knows the crazy son-of-a-bitch that did it, too.”

Wyatt’s interest was captured, “Who are you referring to? And who did it?”

There was a pause from the other line. Then, in a hushed tone, as if he were speaking the name of Voldemort, the ex-president revealed, “Golden Face,”

“Golden Face?” Wyatt questioned, “That’s impossible, he went up in flames after the NHL all-star game,”

“That’s just what he wants everyone to think,” Mr. Philbin spoke with finality. “But I can assure you, he’s no myth.”

Macklin allowed himself to fall backwards into the chair, chuckling nervously, “No way, dude, Golden Face! That’s pretty scary,”

Wyatt shot him a disapproving glare and continued his conversation with the former President. “Say that Golden Face really did somehow survive… there’s nobody that could take him down. Unless…”

“Unless… Michael Scarn comes out of retirement.”

Wyatt took a deep breath and straightened up. “How would one find him?”

“It’s pretty simple, if you know the right paper company.” Mr. Philbin answered. “Call this number—ask for Scott.”

Wyatt obediently jotted down the sequence of numbers on a paper scrap, his hopes beginning to rise again. Perhaps he wasn’t utterly abandoned with only Bert Macklin after all.

“I’m confident Scarn will do what’s right,” Mr. Philbin assured Wyatt. “And listen… I’m truly sorry for what I did to this nation. But if I can’t fix it, I know he can.”

“You better hope you’re right about this guy.” Wyatt spat before ending the call. He examined the number momentarily, reluctant to even trust ex-president Philbin after what he had done to his country and his partner.

Macklin leaned forward in his chair curiously, “So, what’s the skinny, VP?”

Wyatt ignored his companion and punched the numbers onto the landline. The dial tone sounded in his ear briefly, then a cheerful female voice greeted his call, “Dunder Mifflin, this is Erin!”

“This is Vice President Benjamin Wyatt,” he addressed her with all the authority he could muster into his tone. “Get me Scott.”

_

_Earlier that day_

“Master Scarn, it’s time to awaken for work.”

With reluctance, Michael Scarn peeled open an eyelid to glare at his robot butler, Samuel, who had disrupted his slumber. “I’m up,” he groaned and tossed aside a bottle of liquor. A hangover haunted his brain as he went about his morning routine; he was preparing for another undercover shift as a mild-mannered paper salesman, Michael Scott. His façade was the regional manager at Dunder Mifflin, a small company. It supplied just enough income to pay the bills and support his grotesque drinking habit.

After dressing in his business attire, Scarn shuffled into the kitchen where Samuel had prepared breakfast. He choked down a piece of toast and prayed it didn’t come back up during his drive to work. After oiling Samuel and kissing a picture of his deceased wife, Scarn vacated his condo and sped off to work.

Michael Scarn maintained a low-profile at his occupation by acting completely out of character; instead of the suave, intellectual, cunning secret agent he was, he took on the role of an awkward, oblivious, eccentric man who was unfamiliar with personal space. This had kept him in the shadows for years, where nobody called on him to save the world in a very long time. He preferred it this way.

That was until he received a fateful phone call shortly after opening for business that morning at Dunder Mifflin.

Scarn sauntered into his place of employment as usual that morning, but he could not deny a strange feeling he possessed. Something was off about this morning, and he was sure he had good reason for this sensation. He pushed passed the door, gave the red-headed receptionist a greeting nod, then made his way right into his office. Little was accomplished in his office, which consisted of glass walls to see out into his employee’s workspace. As per usual, he gazed out at the back of his tallest employee’s head and his most dedicated employee’s scrunched face buried deep in his work beside him. His boring day passed as any other. That was, until he received the unsuspected phone call.

“Michael,” Erin, his receptionist, spouted on rushing into his office with widened eyes. “I transferred a phone call to you and I just want to warn you… it’s the Vice President.”

Scarn chuckled, reaching for the telephone. “Very funny, Erin,” he said before accepting the call and greeting the other line, “Michael Scott, how may I help you?”

“Scarn,” the speaker addressed him, causing an unpleasant sensation in the base of his stomach. “it won’t be necessary to pretend you aren’t an agent. Philbin told me where to reach you.”

He allowed himself a moment of silence to conjure a reply to the startling response. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Scarn pulled the receiver away from his ear and gestured for Erin to vacate his office and shut the door behind her. After the receptionist obeyed his non-verbal demands, he returned to the conversation. “I thought I made the nature of my career clear. I’m retired.”

“I understand,” Vice President Wyatt assured him. “I wouldn’t be contacting you if I had any other option. But, we need you desperately. My wife—the president—has been kidnapped, and the President’s rubies have been stolen. We have pitifully little information, and I personally have even less of an idea of where to start.”

While the determination and grief were evident in the Vice President’s tone and Scarn experienced sympathy for him, his mind would remain made up. “I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Knope, but I’m done. I’ve lost too much, and I’m too old to get back in the game. I’ve cleaned up isle five for the last time.”

“Please,” Wyatt pleaded, his previously well upheld authoritative tone faltering. “I’m out of options here. Our best FBI agent can’t even do it alone.”

“I could _so_ do it alone, man!” someone protested from the background.

“Shut up, Macklin,”

Scarn shook his head. “I don’t take cases anymore, and I definitely don’t work with other agents. You’ll just have to find someone else. The answer is no.”

Wyatt released a sigh, “Alright, I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but I hope it will convince you to reconsider… We do know who committed this crime. And I know you have a history with him.”

Intrigued, and frankly a bit concerned, Scarn prompted Wyatt to continue, “Who?”

With a small pause, Wyatt spoke the name that sent chills down his spine. “Golden Face.”

For a horrible moment, Scarn’s brain forced flashes of gruesome and horrific memories to invade his thoughts. He shook away the image of his dead wife and an explosion and an ice skating rink and spoke through the pain, “Golden Face is dead.”

“I have very good reason to believe he isn’t, Scarn.” Wyatt countered assuredly. “You could take him down once and for all. Again.”

“The answer is still no,” Scarn replied affirmatively. “Golden Face is in Hell where he belongs, and I’m in retirement where I belong. With all due respect, Mr. Wyatt, please don’t call this number again.”

With a deep sign, Wyatt gave in, “Fine. If you change your mind, come to the White House. The password to get in is 1-2-3-4. Your country needs you, Michael Scarn.”

“Good luck, Vice President.”

With that, Scarn ended the call. He stared blankly for a while, still haunted by recollections of the past he was attempting to escape. Perhaps no amount of whiskey and Billy Joel would help him forget.

_

After leaving his office at promptly five o’clock, Scarn headed home in his Sebring convertible with the top down. This always cleared his thoughts. The drive consisted of nothing but listening to Brittney Spears’s ‘Just Dance’ and keeping Golden Face off his mind.

When Scarn arrived at his condo, initially nothing appeared out of place. He tossed his keys onto his coffee table and trudged into the kitchen in search of whatever alcohol he had left himself. Entering the room, however, exposed a great shock.

On the floor was his trusted mechanical companion. Samuel’s circuit board was saturated in coffee, the mug broken beside him. A combination of concern and fright swept over Scarn and he rushed to the robot’s side. “Samuel!” he cried, examining his state. A small amount of steam was slowly rising from his metal body, his impeccable human-like face blank and eyes wide open behind his large-framed glasses. “Who did this to you?!”

Scarn rose to his feet, bustling around the kitchen in search for a towel to wipe off the coffee from Samuel’s chest. Spotting one beside his refrigerator, he hurried over and swiped it off the counter. Before he returned to Samuel, a foreign piece of paper on the otherwise blank fridge caught his attention.

Slowly, Scarn seized a note that was taped to the surface of the appliance. His heart pounded against his rib cage and his face went hot as he read the words on the paper:

_Nice place you got, Scarn. And nice robot. HA!_

_I’m coming after you again, baby, and this time_

_you aren’t getting away so easy. Then I’m gonna_

_dig up your dead wife and I’m gonna hump her_

_real good. See you back on the ice_

_-Golden Face_

Scarn read and reread the terrifying note, trying to decide whether it was a dreadful nightmare. Once he was forced to accept the reality and gravity of this situation, Scarn stumbled over to his momentarily non-functioning robot. He wiped away whatever liquid he could from Samuel’s body, careful not to burn himself in the process. When he was done he calmly rose to his feet and put 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue into his GPS.


End file.
